Hanson changed colour--he looked closer--he recognized him--then fell on his knees by the bed and seizing his old Captain’s hand, wept like a child. I hurried out of the room, for I could not bear the scene. Hanson never left the bed of the dying officer one hour at a time. However, the poor fellow died next day; and the last sad office of closing his eyes was performed by this faithful and humane soldier; nay, more--from his purse came the expenses of the funeral--his own hands made the coffin--and no mourner ever followed the beloved dead to the grave with a sincerer sorrow, than Hanson did his poor Captain. MESS-TABLE CHAT. No. IV. (A SKETCH FOR THE “MEDICOS.”) “There were four-and-twenty Doctors all of a row.” OLD SONG. SCENE.--_The mess-room, of the Medical Staff at Chatham. A couple of dozen Doctors at dinner; all in blue uniform,--red collar and cuffs, no epaulettes. Guests, consisting of a retired Major, and a Captain of Infantry on full pay. Attendants, &c. &c._ _Staff Surgeon Ward._ This goose is as good a _subject_ as ever I _cut up_:--Doctor Adipose, shall I send you a _superior extremity_?[16] _Dr. Adipose._ Thank you, Mr. Ward. I’ll take one--au--hau--, with a slice of the breast; and, as your hand is in, you may as well let me have the--au--Pope’s nose. _Staff Surgeon Ward._ There,--there,--there, Doctor--there you are; there is the delicious _os coccygis_ for you. _Dr. Adipose._ Thank you, au--hau--, thank you, my dear friend--very good, indeed. _Dr. Kyle._ Permit me to send you some sauce. _Dr. Adipose._ Thank you, Doctor, au--hau--, very good, very good; it looks a perfect Kitchener,--au--hau, very good, indeed. _Hospital Assistant Lintly._ Mr. President, a little soup. _President._ Eh! what! soup again, Lintly? _Hospital Assistant Lintly._ Yes, Sir, if you please. _President._ There, there. De’il a word I’ll say aboot yer taste, mon; gin ye had supped as much sargery soup as me, ye’d tak to soolids. _Dr. Kyle._ Ah, Mr. President, you were too long in the Peninsula to recover your taste for soup. _President._ True, Doctor! Hey--de ye remember when you and I war hospital mates togither at Belem, when the sargeryman wad han’ us up twa smoking tins o’ broth, to see if it war fit for the sick; an’ then we wad hae anither twa, to see if it war fit for the wounded; an’ then twa mere to see if we liked it oorsels,--ha! ha! ha! Doctor, we war jolly hospital mates, then. Ecod! I never swallowed a mouthfu’ o’ soup sin’ I was promoted. _Dr. Kyle._ I was never an hospital _mate_, Mr. President; “_Hospital Assistant to the Forces_,” was _my_ first appointment in the department. _President._ Aweel, it’s a’ the self-same thing. When I first entered--noo sax-an’-twenty years--we had mates, an’ nae assistants at a’. _Dr. Kyle._ You are perfectly right, there; the service had no _assistants_ at that time, sure enough.